The Prodigal Son Returns

 

#AwkwardFamilyPhotos

Truly the hardest part of becoming a stepmom was figuring out my place in the relationship.  Not only was I trying to find out who I was as Bee's new girlfriend . . . then fiancee . . . then bride . . . but I had the added task of establishing myself in a 9 year-old's life when this 9 year-old didn't really need me in his life.  And I am the type of person who needs to be needed.

As Bee and I got more serious in our relationship, I could see that very little I did was initially going to have a big impact on S.B., which was comforting.  I lean a bit towards bull-in-the-china-shop tendencies, oblivious to social cues and inadvertently wreaking havoc as I go.  So it was good to see, in those first months of dating Bee, that whatever I did wouldn't really mess with S.B.'s life.

The opposite was not necessarily true, though: some of the smallest things in S.B.'s life had a huge impact on my own, and that took time to come to terms with.  I'm not proud of this, but it's the truth. 

Back in those days, for instance, my "weekends" were actually on Wednesdays and Thursdays: this meant that any day-time dates with Bee had to be squeezed in between the hours of 8:30-3:15 so he could be back by the time S.B. got home from school.  And, on remarkably many of the few "weekends" that Bee and I planned to go out of town, S.B. suddenly got sick and I ended up spending my days off grumpily doing all the chores I'd postponed instead of hanging out at the lake eating s'mores.  

Even small celebrations got way-laid. A few months after meeting Bee, I bought my first home.  I was so excited for my first night fully moved-in, and I planned a romantic evening-at-my-house with Bee to mark the occasion.  I pictured a comfortable dinner at my new kitchen table and a fun movie in my newly-appointed, decorated-just-so living room.  But an hour into it the evening, Dee called in tears: S.B. wasn't feeling well and she couldn't soothe him.  

Bee high-tailed it to her place to put S.B. in the car and drive him around town until he fell asleep.  As I blew out the candles and sat down in my quiet living room, I tried to appreciate how much my partner cared about his kid, and what that meant for future kids we might have.  I tried to remember that it was right and good that his connection with his child was more important than his connection to the girl he'd barely started dating.  But I already -- even just a few months in -- knew that this relationship with Bee was likely going to be my own most-important one to date . . . and it was hard to accept the reality that I would never have the chance to be the most-important person in Bee's life.

Whether Bee or Dee or S.B. remembers it, S.B. was out of school, sick, quite a lot when I first met him.  After the fourth or fifth time of cancelled plans, I was ungraciously complaining to a friend, who suggested maybe S.B. just had bad allergies: my friend's kids had been in the same situation, and getting some medication had really helped them.  

I begged Bee to take S.B. to an allergist; he agreed, and I was so relieved.  But the day before the appointment, Bee and Dee talked more and decided to cancel the visit and instead keep a log of S.B.'s food intake for the next few weeks.  I was livid.  In fact, this may have been the first time (though certainly not the last) Bee had the pleasure of hearing just how high an octave I can reach when screeching.

I tried to point out that it wouldn't hurt S.B. to get tested for allergies.  I reasoned that they could also keep the food log, if they wanted, but that talking to a doctor could speed up the process.  Mostly, I whined about the injustice of having this affect my life, but not being allowed to have a say in its resolution.  

Whether because he agreed or because his ears hurt, Bee relented and the trip to the allergist was back on.  (A win for me, either way!)  (Totally relevant side note: also a win for S.B., as seeing the allergist did help him, and he was sick a lot less after that.)  This was probably the first time I pushed my opinion on something to do with S.B., and it was gratifying to have my voice heard.

While I was listened to about the allergist, there were many times I was ignored.  Worse-yet, there were many times  I thought Bee and I had agreed on something, but then Bee backtracked and didn't enforce it.  

"If you want him to do the dishes, you need to make him do the dishes," he'd say. 

"But I thought we wanted him to do the dishes," I spat back. "And how can I enforce it when, the minute I bring it up to S.B., you immediately jump in to say 'Oh, he just got home from school.  I haven't seen him all day.  He shouldn't have to do chores right now.'?"

So I would simmer in my rage, trying to figure out where I fit in this relatively new relationship as a stepmom when I hadn't even figured out my relationship as a wife.

S.B. was an easy stepson, and I was happy to have him as mine.  But I wasn't happy with myself as a stepparent: I was never as demonstrative as I wanted to be, or as eager, or just as comfortable as I'd hoped.  And then Mr. C was born, and 13-year-old S.B. wasn't quite sure what to do with him . . . and then S.B. entered the high school near Dee's house . . . and I tried not to take it personally that it just made more sense for S.B. to stay with us less and less . . . until college hit and he moved out all together . . . and then he graduated and started his own business and moved to the next town over. 

 Bee, of course, mourned the loss of S.B. in his life.  And not just for his own sake, but for the sake of establishing better bonds with Mr. C.   "Your kids grow up, and they're just gone," he'd often say.

"But he calls you every week," I tried to point out.

"It's not the same."

"And he only lives 30 minutes away," I reasoned.

"It doesn't matter."

"And we usually see him at least once a month with the Ex-In-Laws," I reminded him.

"It's completely different."

And, as with so much else in our life, I just had to accept that Bee was probably right.  After all, I have no idea what it will be like when Mr. C leaves the nest.  I like to think I'll be excited for him or relieved for me . . . but I'll probably just be devastated.

And what can you do at that point?  Your kids are gone, and your influence on them is no longer as important as other people's, and your chance to have a meaningful relationship with them gets smaller and smaller.

Except . . . 

Except S.B. moved back in last month, trying to save money for a house. 

And he's so excited about his current life, which reminds us to be excited for ours.

And he happily helps Mr. C do the dishes.

And the two of them go for late-night walks and spend hours playing games together.

And he confides in Bee again.

And he wants to tell me all about his day.

There's an air of hopefulness and fun in the house.  We have the chance to spend time with him as a fully-formed adult: to get to see who he is in a way you only can when it's 11 o'clock at night and you're all in your bathrobes and weird conversations just happen in between commercial breaks.

And I get a bit of a do-over: I have the chance to be a better stepmom.  But this time, I can get out of my own way: because S.B. doesn't really need a stepmom, so I don't have to worry about fulfilling a role I never really understood.  

And I'm older now, and wiser now, and I give fewer F's . . . so, instead, I can just be me: I can listen when he wants me to, and get his advice when I need it.  I can laugh with him without worrying it diminishes my authority, he can side with me when Bee's on the edge, and we can work together to figure out and support Mr. C.

Maybe I wouldn't appreciate this second chance if things had been different when S.B. was younger.  Maybe the struggles of our first relationship just make this new relationship more-meaningful.  To have S.B. back has been a real blessing, not just for me, but for my feelings about me.  All I have to do now is keep reminding the bull not to trash the china shop.